


you are all I need

by newheights



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, also [Y/N] is still a really weird thing to type, as requested, because gay and bi dudes are also part of hockey fandom, this is one of those hockey imagines but with a male pov/reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 02:18:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16525412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newheights/pseuds/newheights
Summary: You adore Nate, but you hate the fights.





	you are all I need

**Author's Note:**

> For bostonbooins on Tumblr. Hope this is what you were looking for.
> 
> Title from Radiohead because I have no imagination.

You wake up to the sound of the front door clunking shut and a bag hitting the floor. Bright sunlight peeks through the gaps in the blackout curtains - it's a few hours before you need to get up for your shift at the hospital, then. You groan, already missing the hypothetical extra sleep. You're in the spare bedroom (the 'overnights and red-eye flights' bedroom, as the two of you christened it) so you've got a few moments before he finds you.

"Babe, you ready to go? Gabe and Tys said they'd meet us at the restaurant, and hopefully there won't be too much traffic…" Nate's words peter out as he opens the door, sees you sitting up in bed, bleary-eyed and definitely not ready for lunch with his teammates.

"Nate, what the fuck?" you ask, deadpan.

"[Y/N], what are you still doing in bed? We need to leave in like ten minutes." You stare blankly, his words not sinking in through the recently-awoken haze in your brain. "For lunch. With Gabe and Tyson. Like we talked about the other day," Nate continues, slowly, like maybe you've stopped understanding English in the last few minutes.

"I start work at four, I'm not going anywhere. Except maybe back to sleep."

"You said you'd come! You haven't come and hung out with anyone from the team in ages."

"Yeah, because pretending to be your totally no-homo best bro in public is so much fun. Hard pass." 

Whoops. Normally your brain-to-mouth filter is a little more diplomatic. _Blame the rude awakening_ , you think. 

You try to keep your frustration from Nate - while you will never go fully back in the closet, you went through too much shit to ever want to do that again - you also understand that asking Nate to come out, be the first out hockey player, isn't fair (or even safe, given the size of some of his probably-homophobic opponents on the ice). You're willing to play it straight in the public eye, high school besties turned roommates (following him to Colorado is maybe a stretch for _just friends_ , but the media will generally believe what you tell it) but it is so fucking exhausting sometimes. 

"Sorry, sorry, I know, that's not fair of me. I thought I'd be alright for lunch but last night's shift ran late, I think you left for morning skate before I'd even got home. I just, I have work later and I'm really tired and do not have the energy to be around other people right now." 

Nate sits down on the foot of the bed, grabs your hands and starts stroking small circles with this thumbs. "Come on, [Y/N], it's just lunch. You don't even have to pretend anything like with the full team, it's not like Gabe and Tys don't know about us."

"Yeah, but what about the eight hundred people who want an autograph and a selfie and the chance to tell the three of you how great you played last game? People suck, and I'm about to spend another twelve hours dealing with sick and bleeding versions. You're just going to have to go by yourself, or reschedule." 

He drops your hands. "Fine. It's not like this is anything new, you always fucking bail on me. You're working, or you're tired, or _people suck_ and you just can't be bothered." 

"I'm an ER nurse, not a fucking stay-at-home WAG! You want someone available at your beck and call, go find yourself a Stepford wife!" you yell back. Again with the unfiltered venting, but it looks like you're both going all out, a real fight. May as well do it properly.

"Stop putting words in my mouth, you fucker. I want you to be friends with my friends. I like spending time with all of you together, when you're not being a dickhead. I'm _not_ saying I want some skinny blonde Insta model, I like, want you, you grumpy, antisocial bastard. Just, it'd be nice if you put a bit of effort in too."

"Oh fuck you. You say you want me, but half the time you only want the socially-acceptable version. Do you realise how much fucking _effort_ it takes to modulate every expression, every movement, making sure it's not too gay? I'm telling you I can't deal with that right now, so just go have lunch without your grumpy, antisocial, super fucking gay boyfriend."

Nate stands abruptly, seriously pissed off and not at all concerned about letting you see it. "Right. I guess I won't see you later, you'll be gone before I'm back." He stalks over to the door, slamming it on his way out, and a minute later there's an echoing bang as he reciprocates with the front door.

You slump back down into the bed, wriggling around a bit to try and get comfortable. They say you shouldn't go to bed without resolving your argument, but you don't think that counts when it's 1pm and only half of the couple is attempting sleep. You probably won't succeed anyway. Not with Nate's words reverberating around in your head like they are. 

 

\---

 

You were right - people _do_ suck. 

You've spent your shift being puked on (you don't blame the flu-laden five-year-old; you absolutely blame the drunk twenty-year-old), yelled at, and underappreciated by doctors and patients alike. It's 4:05am, and all you want to do is drive home, shower, and sleep for the next decade. You kind of wish your bed would include a cuddly boyfriend, but he's got a game tonight and you don't want to interrupt his sleep - not that he extended you the same courtesy - but also, you're not one hundred percent sure you'd be welcome, anyway.

Getting kicked out of bed after a night like this one would just be the cherry on top of a shit sandwich. Fuck, it's late, your metaphors are scrambling and you need to sleep.

You're not sure you remember much of the drive home. As you creep in through the front door, you can see Nate's left the kitchen light on. There's a plate with a cupcake and a sheet of paper tucked underneath sitting on the breakfast bar. You peel off the cupcake wrapper and take a bite as you read.

**[Y/N],**

****

**I'm sorry and I love you. Hope the puke wasn't too gross.**

****

**Nate**

Well, no one ever said Nathan Mackinnon, hockey superstar, was much of a wordsmith. _Good thing he has other… assets_ , you suppose.

 

\---

 

When you get up, much later that morning, you're feeling a lot more human. You plod downstairs into the kitchen, already looking forward to a big cup of coffee and a few hours on the couch watching something out of your Netflix queue. But when you look up, Nate is standing there, leaning against a counter and looking his usual huge self, one mug in his hands and another beside him on the countertop.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he says. His tone is cheerful but his smile is a bit off, smaller and a little uncertain. 

"Is that for me?" you ask, gesturing at the second mug. Nate's smile turns to a rueful chuckle, and he hands it over to you. He understands your priorities.

You take a sip, and then another bigger one once you've determined the heat won't burn your tongue off. "Mmmmm… thanks, love."

"Are you talking to me or the coffee?" Nate replies jokingly. A pause, then, "Do you maybe want to come sit down? And chat, maybe? I've got a bit of time before I have to start getting ready for tonight."

"Do you really want to get into this before you've got a game? I don't want to distract you."

"Honestly? I reckon I'd feel worse if we didn't talk about it. My head's all over the place right now."

You nod your assent, and the two of you walk to the living room, sit down facing each other on the couch. You're not really sure who should start talking. You have no idea what you'd say if Nate doesn't go first.

"Okay, so. Um. About yesterday. I'm really sorry for getting angry. I talked to Gabe a bit - not any specifics or anything, just like, that we had a fight - and he kind of reminded me that angry hockey players can be pretty scary and like, intimidating, when that anger is directed at their partner."

"Bud, we're practically the same size. Solid advice for someone Mel's size, but like, I'm not scared of you, even when you're pissed off. But I do appreciate that it's something you're thinking about, so like, thank you."

"You're welcome," comes the reflexive, polite Canadian reply. "And so like. What you said, about not wanting to pretend to be a straight bro or whatever. That sounded like it's something you've been holding onto for a while, right?"

"Yeah, I guess. Like, I'm not like the guys on RuPaul or anything but I'm definitely more effeminate than most guys, and I'm okay with that part of myself, but a lot of dudes see it as something dangerous, or like, creepy? I don't want to out you, you know I'd never do that intentionally, but it's kind of scary knowing that if I'm not careful enough, some dickhead with a smartphone could ruin your career. I couldn't handle being the reason for you losing everything you've worked for."

"I mean, just having a gay friend wouldn't mean I was gay too. I wouldn't have to stop playing or anything."

"Yeah, but a gay friend who you live with? Someone would work it out. Or even just speculate and the rumour mill would do the rest. And I know the Avs can't back out on your contract, but like, Getzlaf is a big fucking dude and I don't want to see you taking shitty uncalled hits from homophobes like him for the rest of your career."

"I know, [Y/N], I don't exactly want that either. But I'm a reasonably big dude, too, yeah? I wouldn't just lie down and take it. And like, maybe, I'd prefer to take a few extra hits if it meant you didn't have to feel like shit every time we're out in public."

What the fuck. Did Nate just say he'd come out for you?

The look on your face must give away something of your internal monologue. "I'm serious. I'm not saying I'm going to captain the Denver Pride Parade, but this is something that is hurting you, a lot. I didn't realise it before yesterday, or like, let myself think about your reasons. You've always just said it's about you being like, introverted or whatever. But if it's really been because of what you said, how you're always double-guessing everything you do and say, then that's something I can help fix."

This is definitely not the direction you thought this talk would take. You were thinking it'd be you apologising for losing your cool, him accepting it without actually touching on the reason why you were upset, then make-up sex. You both know the drill well enough by now.

"God, Nate. I don't want you to like, make some crazy decision that you can't reverse. This would be huge."

"Don't worry, babe. I'm not going to _do_ anything right away. I'm probably not going to do anything at all, actually - like, I'm not the sort of guy who makes grand announcements to the media. If I did come out, it'd be gradual, no statements or anything and just like, repeating 'no comment' and 'ask my agent'. But I want you to really think about whether it's something that would help you. I hate that you've been feeling so bad, and that you've been hiding this from me."

Fuck, okay. This is _way_ more than you were expecting. Also, more than you're ready to really process after being up for like, fifteen minutes tops.

"Okay. Can we cuddle now? I feel like this sort of decision needs cuddles." And like, thinking time, lots of thinking time, but you don't mention that part.

Nate pops his mug on the coffee table and opens his arms up wide, looking relieved and happy. "Of course. Come here."

You lean forwards to place your mug beside his, then sort of awkwardly twist around so you can collapse backwards into his embrace. You love the feeling of security you get when you're wrapped up in Nate's (admittedly well-muscled) arms. It's definitely a… firm… hug, between his biceps and his single-digit body fat percentage and his general truck-like physique, but you wouldn't change it for the world.

You turn your head to the side, look up through your messy hair sticking up at all angles, to see him looking down at you with a fond smile. He presses a kiss to your temple. "I love you, [Y/N]."

"Even when I'm a grumpy bastard?" God, you're such a brat. Your loving, incredible, multi-millionaire pro-athlete boyfriend has just offered to come out publicly for you, and what do you do? Pick another fight 0.5 seconds later.

Nate just laughs. "Yes, you dickhead. Stop being argumentative and let me be nice to you."

You open your mouth to respond, probably something about not being argumentative, but Nate takes the initiative to kiss you full on the mouth instead. It's pretty effective in shutting you up, you'll admit.

After a few minutes, just kissing starts becoming something a little more heated, a little closer to making out. The rub of stubble on stubble is definitely going to leave evidence, but you can't bring yourself to care. You turn further so you're half sitting, half lying in Nate's lap, bring your outside leg around to wrap around his thick waist. Nate lets out a quiet moan as you let your hand slip up and under the bottom of his tee, then pulls back with clear reluctance. 

"Babe, you know the rule. It's a game day. We can't do this now." You can see how much he doesn't want to say the words, how willing he would be to let go of years' worth of superstition and like, carry all 90 kilos of you to bed and fucking pound you for a few hours. You imagine that's probably not the sort of pre-game workout Nate's coach would approve of.

You lean back a little, and Nate lets you go. You smile up at him, trying to keep any teasing seduction out of your expression. "Not now, but later, maybe?" you ask, hopeful.

"Gotta win, first."

"Are you seriously not going to fuck me if you lose?" Fucking hockey players and their superstitions.

"No, of course not. Wait, shit, I mean, we’re absolutely having sex later. I just can't like, say the L-word before a game, so like, that's why I said I've got to win. You should definitely wait up, either way."

You think your previous statement re: idiot hockey superstitions still holds, but you're less inclined to be annoyed by it now that you know make-up sex is still on the cards. With a sigh that turns into a massive yawn, you turn back around and sink into Nate again. "Alright. We’ve still got a bit more time for PG-rated cuddles though, yeah?"

You can feel Nate's grin against the top of your head. "Yeah, babe. PG cuddles are fine."


End file.
